


Who We Are In The Dark

by wyverary



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Coming of Age, Friends to Lovers, Gay Mike Hanlon, Getting Together, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Phone Calls & Telephones, Road Trips, Sad ending but it could be sadder i guess, Stanley Uris Has OCD - Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Trauma, ben is a trans girl btw but shes not in this a whole lot so its just a side note, i guess lol, i wrote stan as bi but its up to interpretation, offhanded references 2 reddie but its not rly important or established, this fic is just A Lot & thats all i have 2 say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-18 01:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14843219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyverary/pseuds/wyverary
Summary: It’s the summer before they graduate high school and maybe growing up isn’t as straightforward as it was supposed to be(aka Mike and Stan have a gay crisis together)





	Who We Are In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> this fic brought to u by The Weird Senior Year Mood, almost out of high school & this is what im spending my time on :/ 
> 
> ive literally been working on this 4 a couple months now lol but i have no idea how it got long this long & im also sorry i dont know what tenses are
> 
> ask me how much of this was inspired by me listening 2 kevin abstract @ 10 pm lol
> 
> anyway i love the one & only good softboy on this earth, my boy mike hanlon, he’s the most valid and he deserves love and support & im not sorry 4 making him lowkey a pretentious art hoe
> 
> this takes place the summer before their senior year (july '93), i borrowed a couple elements from the book/miniseries but mostly its movie canon bc i cant read suddenly i dont know (& even then its not totally canon compliant idk man)
> 
> i wrote this bc stanlon is lowkey slept on & uh “be the change u wish to see in the world” - albert einstein
> 
> 7/1/18: i changed it so ben is referred to as a girl bc while i initially thought she might be closeted i think she would at least be out to the losers by now in this universe
> 
> reminder: im not black or jewish so if i got anything wrong or wrote something out of my lane pls let me know & ill change it!
> 
> lastly i made a playlist that i listened 2 while writing this & if ur interested its here but its not important 2 the story or anything https://open.spotify.com/user/shywyvern/playlist/2QTJKTCRY3LzDolvVpKSxE?si=mrY84UYKTv2rYWv3ComBIw

It comes in the night. The thoughts come and find Mike staring up at a ceiling too dark to see, at a red LED hour that’s too late to be normal. Most of the time, all he can do is breathe and let his mind entertain what comes. He’s past trying to stop it.

The fact is, it’s one thing to know at least half the town wouldn’t mind your discontinued existence on the face of the earth, would even go so far as to guarantee this themselves. Even as a kid, even as an innocent, it wasn’t hard for Mike to imagine Butch Bowers’ angry son striking a match and coming to finish the job his father had started with Mike’s parents. But it was another thing entirely to be confronted with every fear he had never thought to face and every truth he had never wanted to know in the span of a summer that almost left him dead. The more time went on, the more Mike felt an ache in his chest, a pain that told him that the childhood he could never get back had been over long before he’d had to fight for it.

Between his head and his heart, he isn’t getting any sleep tonight. Beneath his feet is the cold hardwood floor as he creeps downstairs toward the telephone.

* * *

Stanley can easily say that it’s hard to feel like he’s a growing adolescent when he can’t seem to be anything but constrained by routine. There’s all his latchkey friends, and then there’s him, walking in his own tired circles. Maybe Eddie knew how he felt, but only in the sense that he understood the coexisting pain and necessity in following the rules of your keepers; he doesn’t need the things Stan needs to survive. On a given summer day, Stan wakes up, brushes his teeth, showers, eats his toast, unplugs the toaster, recites Birkat Hamazon with his parents, rebrushes his teeth, attends morning service, comes home, eats food separated on the plate, spends time with his friends, returns to temple for afternoon service, reads, stresses about his future, attends evening service, eats more, checks each picture in the hall before bed, brushes his teeth again, pretends there’s nothing wrong (he doesn’t flick the lights on, off anymore--the less time he spent in the dark, the better).

Lately it was harder for Stan to pray. No matter what he did, what obsessive-compulsive rituals he performed on his own time, an inescapable feeling of wrongness had settled in his bones. Stan wasn’t sure if he believed in a God, but now, even if he did, it was like he had no way to reach Him. Maybe Stan had been permanently dirtied by the knowledge of what lurks in the sewers, or maybe he was just damaged and unholy to begin with.

No rabbi ever spoke of Hell. The only hell Stan knew was other people’s creation, both their internalized concept and their determination to make life in Derry a trial fit for a mythological Greek punishment. Stan didn’t bear a cross; he struggled uphill with a boulder and watched from the top as his efforts went to waste. 

Stan’s boulder was many things. It was a troubling constant, crafted from obsidian, his cocktail of mental issues, his worsening relationship with his father, his weakened connection to his faith, his surroundings that left him jaded, and the figurative tempest that his head had become. All that, and he’s probably gay. He didn’t get it before, but he does now: he was the crooked portrait all along.

Stan isn’t stupid. He knows his sexual confusion isn’t the worst of his problems. That doesn’t make it a point of pride, though. Public high school had enough assholes pretending they knew who he was. He’s not about to paint another target on his back for the whole town to aim at while they collectively ignore their real problems. So why does he feel like a liar the longer he keeps it secret? For the most part, Stan trusts his friends with his life. No matter what prejudices they grew up learning, if he told them he wasn’t straight they would undoubtedly stick by him and defend him. But if he tells them, then they get burdened with that information, and if he doesn’t tell them, he fucking loses his mind keeping it secret. In other words, the stone rolled back down either way.

Then there was Mike. In all his 17 years and potential past lifetimes, Stan can’t remember knowing anybody as genuinely good as him. Calling him “good” felt cheap, but at the same time there was no specific word that would do his temperament justice, no sophisticated definition that captured how pure and saintly he knew Mike to be. He could recite every holy word he knew in Hebrew, every precise Latin name in his Illustrated Encyclopedia of Birds, every bit of stupid American English he had grown up absorbing from the New England public school system, but none of that could possibly come close. He wasn’t Ben; he couldn’t capture beauty with imperfect human lexicons.

Stan didn’t dare count Mike in the sum of his stone’s cursed parts. The truth was Stan had it bad for Mike, but every part of him, his brain and his heart and the doubt swirling through his body, settling in his bones and his lungs like ash, knew he wasn’t good enough for him. People like Stan, whose hand shakes when he writes, who sometimes has to physically restrain himself from digging his nails deep into his skin and leaving bloody marks like teeth (and he could, easily, without a second thought), weren’t meant to be understood. Mike putting his arm around him and pulling him close was the only thing that felt right about being within 10 feet of the Neibolt house. Mike living and breathing in the same uncaring world as Stan and the rest of the losers was the only thing that felt like hope in this smothered corner of Maine.

Now, Mike’s tinny voice over the landline was the only thing separating Stan from the silence.

Mike spoke like he was trying to apologize: softly, quickly, too much at once. “I’m really sorry to call so late, I hope your parents aren’t mad or anything. Is it okay to talk right now, I totally understand if—“

“Mike, no, it’s fine,” Stan murmured, hugging his free arm around himself. “What’s going on, is everything okay?”

Stan heard a sharp breath from the other end. 

“I mean, I don’t wanna keep you up with this…”

Stan felt a sad smile form on his lips. Mike was truly one of the few compassionate people he knew. It was part of his charm.

“I’m already up, it’s no big deal. Tell me what’s wrong, Mike.”

A strangled noise made its way from the speaker. Stan supposed it passed for a laugh. 

“You know what’s wrong, Stan.”

A particular spot on Stan’s palm began to burn. There was no mistaking Mike’s tone of voice. He’d known Mike long enough to not be surprised when he couldn’t be strong.

Stan breathed out and ran his fingers through his curls. “Okay, alright, uh, don’t...tell me about that, then. Tell me about, um, the farm. How’s your grandpa?”

“...He’s alright. We harvested a bunch of our potato crop today, so things are pretty normal over here,” Mike’s words seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. 

“Hey, that’s neat,” Stan inwardly cringed at his words. “Uh, did you do anything else?”

“Not really, no.”

“Do you...want me to talk about my day?” Stan asked.

Mike replied quickly. “Yeah, that would be great.”

“I don’t know, to be honest, my day was pretty boring,” said Stan. “I went to temple, I guess. I did some summer reading. Pretty lame stuff.”

“What book?”

“Ethan Frome. Edith Warton.”

“Ah.”

Stan laughed at his dismayed tone. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“I love classic literature and all, and I’m sure Ms. Wharton is a nice lady--”

“ _Was_ a nice lady.”

“--but that book just isn’t engaging,” continued Mike. “At least to me.”

Stan smiled to himself. “No, I totally agree. There is one good thing about it, though.”

“And what’s that?”

“How short it is.” 

Mike’s laughter over the phone was a balm to Stan’s worries. Maybe it was just the late hour making him feel untethered from the earth, cast away in a barren sea. No thought flowed through his brain before Stan whispered, “You’re perfect.”

It was a second before he realized what he’d even said. It was a second too late.

“You’re wrong.”

The dial tone cut much deeper than silence.

* * *

Growing up an outsider isn’t ideal, but there are things you can learn to be grateful for, if nothing else.

1\. Self-sufficiency; you didn’t need to depend on anyone outside your immediate surroundings  
2\. Quality of life; living day to day not knowing the intimate details the screens buzzed about gave you more time to focus on things that mattered  
3\. Perception; when you’re surrounded by green earth and not pavement and chatter it’s easier to see things as they are

But Mike was not golden. He could pretend, he could hold his friends close, he could act strong enough to face their collective demons. It didn’t change the nights he woke up in a sweat, convinced he was taking his last breath. It didn’t erase his own fears. It didn’t fix the vein of tragedy that still ran through this town.

It hurt, but maybe hanging up had been Mike’s weak excuse for self-preservation. He could marginally handle the guilt of burdening his friend, but it was too much to be adorned with a title he could never truly own. He couldn’t even think the word without it twisting into a mockery, a clear reminder he could never measure up to anyone’s expectations. The floor was still cold walking back to his bed. 

Mornings were never kind after nights like these, but Mike still woke up and did his chores and ate breakfast with his grandfather like a person without guilt. One bike ride to the quarry later and he could almost pretend he was a normal kid with no baggage. 

“Homeschool! Glad you could make it!” Richie bounded his way over the rocks before nearly falling on his ass and settling for a wave. 

Mike smiled and waved back as the rest of the Losers chorused their “hello”s. Stan didn’t meet his eyes. Mike tried not to think too hard. 

It was the summer before their senior year, and while everyone else waded and gripped onto some semblance of innocence, Mike stayed dry on the shore. Swimming and being surrounded by water made Mike nervous, like he was more vulnerable there than on dry land. Mike didn’t trust the water to be safe like his friends did. Though he could never put a name to his uneasiness, he could sense _something_ there, lurking and waiting for a moment to strike. If he was crazy, then it was nothing that he didn’t already know, but he was taught not to take those chances. 

Before he can process what’s happening, though, he feels droplets of water hitting his front. Richie is looking at him, smirking with concerned eyes, daring him to follow up. It’s a question: is Mike okay? 

“Asshole,” Mike said, before dipping his hands in and splashing Richie back. Richie is coughing, but he’s laughing too, no longer worried as long as Mike is playing along.

When the attention has shifted from him, Mike sits back and closes his eyes. He’s glad his friends care, and he wants to be carefree like them for just a moment, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s alone and old beyond his 17 years. 

It’s not long before Stan and Ben dry off and get dressed again. Ben goes off wherever to be sappy or something, but Stan walks over to where Mike is sitting and joins him without a word.

It’s a while before either of them say anything. They sit side by side on their rock, avoiding each other’s eyes, before Mike breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry about last night.”

Stan turned to look at him.

“No, it’s not your fault,” said Stan, running his hand through his hair. It’s this motion that brings Mike’s attention to the way the light hits his curls. He has to take a breath. “I mean, really, it was all me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything.”

“I was still the one calling in the middle of the night.”

“Hey,” Stan said softly, looking at his hands. “You know any one of us is more than willing to answer the phone at odd hours of the night. And we know you’d do the same for us. Don’t hold yourself responsible.”

Mike didn’t have a answer to that. Deep down, he knew Stan’s words were true. Mike knew himself to be fairly observant, and more than that he knew his friends inside and out. He knew they’ve all been through far worse than being woken up by the ringing phone at night. But Mike was still taught to be self-sufficient, to take responsibility for anything he had a say in. Opening up was not something he was used to and old habits didn’t break easy. 

Looking at Stan, though, he feels like he could break all of his internalized rules if it meant he’d be happy. 

He feels more than sees Stan reach out to hold his hand and suddenly his stomach isn’t flesh anymore, but wind blowing through an empty cavern, in a good way somehow, and he knows that makes no sense, but all logical thought is wiped from his brain right now and

Stan and Mike are the kind of kids who can sit still and wait, but kids like Richie were meant to expand like dying stars, and that’s exactly what he does as he cannonballs into the water and leaves waves in his wake that spill all over Mike and Stan. 

“Shit! My bad!” Richie yells, and Mike could probably be angry with him for interrupting _whatever_ was about to happen, he almost is already, but he knows Richie didn’t mean it. With Richie, there’s typically a large gap between action and intent, and he can’t fault him for that.

But then Stan gets up, shoots Mike a terse smile, flips the bird at Richie, and walks away, and Mike can’t help but wonder what might’ve happened if the moment had let itself linger a few more seconds.

* * *

To say Stan is tightly-wound would be an understatement. Between schoolwork and temple and doing what he can to placate the vengeful god his mind seemed to channel lately, he wasn’t exactly lousy with free time to settle down. Today was the exception. Mike had phoned him at noon and invited him down to the farm and Stan had jumped at the chance to spend time with him. In a purely platonic way. 

That was the intention, at least. 

Everything had started fine. Stan had ridden his bike over and the two boys had walked into the sunny field behind Mike’s house and settled beneath an old oak tree. It was only when they sat down that Stan’s heart rate rocketed. All he seemed to be able to think about was holding Mike’s hand. He felt like he would die like this, longing to make any kind of contact. He’d just stolen a look at Mike, reclined beneath the tree, reading some book about the Renaissance while sunlight streamed through the branches and around his head like a figure in a painting, when Mike looked up and caught Stan’s eye. Stan looked away quickly, but the deed was done.

He’d just looked at him. That wasn’t a crime, right? 

If Stan’s guilt was any indicator, it was. And now Mike could probably figure it out from there.

If the awkwardness didn’t defuse soon, they would both go insane.

Mike cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Uh, what bird is that?”

He pointed up into the branches of the tree above them. Stan looked at him for a second. “Mike, that’s a pigeon,” he said, trying not to laugh.

“Right,” said Mike. “I knew that.” 

Stan wasn’t exactly smug, but a smirk was present on his face as Mike bit his lip. It wasn’t long before Mike began to crack up, and soon, both boys were giggling. 

Once they stopped to breathe, it was obvious it wasn’t that funny in the first place. That doesn’t stop Stan’s stomach from feeling moth-eaten and graceless.

Mike set down his book and got up. Stan’s stomach sank, thinking he had just up and left, until Mike turned back around, delicately carrying a bunch of deep purple flowers in his hands.

“What’s that?” Stan asked. 

“Blue-eyed Grass.”

Mike walked back over and sat down on the tree’s roots, closer to Stan this time. Mike’s worn jeans grazed skin on Stan’s knee where his khaki shorts didn’t quite reach. Even after all this time, he hadn’t quite grown out of his Boy Scout look. Button-down shirt tucked into high-waisted, knee-length shorts. 

“Technically _Sisyrinchium angustifolium_.” And with that, Mike slipped the flowers into Stan’s brown curls.

“Why do you even know that?” said Stan, feeling his face heat up. 

Mike shrugged. “I see them around a lot, I guess. There’s this really good book on it at the library if you want me to show you.”

“If you’re so smart, how come you had to ask me for bird facts?”

“In my defense, I didn’t really look at it. I swear I know what pigeons look like.”

Stan smiled. “In your defense, it’s weird to just see a Rock pigeon on its own like that. _Columba livia_ typically feeds in flocks.”

“Whatever, nerd.”

* * *

Mike is ten years old. Mike is ten years old and his grandfather is sitting on his bed looking like he’s about to tell him he has a month to live. 

“Your pa didn’t listen when I told him, but I need you to listen now.”

Mike sits there, and he wishes he could just be tucked in before bed like a normal kid, but his grandfather’s idea of bedtime stories is smoke and warnings. It’s like Mike is right there with him as nightclubs burn down, as boys get thrown into rivers, as grizzled men sneer and pour gasoline and flick lighters and strike matches. It’s cursed, he says. One way or another, people do things in this town that are frightening and evil, and one way or another the town’s victims are forgotten. 

And suddenly he’s eight years old and waking up to flickers of light and pounding on his bedroom door. His parents scream from the other side of the door joining their rooms. Mike tries to turn the knob and the metal burns into his skin and for some reason it just won’t turn. They never even had a lock on the door to begin with. Now he’s screaming and banging on the door and coughing until his lungs feel sore, and he wishes he could hear what his mom and dad are saying over the roaring in his ears. It’s not until he realizes he can’t hear them at all that he runs to his window and leaps to the earth. Now both his lungs and his ankle hurt, but he’s not taking inventory of his losses quite yet. And he keeps screaming until he sees the firetruck drive by, swift and uncaring as ever, driven by a grotesque, smiling figure with orange hair. That’s when it goes black.

He’s ten again and he’s crying. His grandfather tries to hold him in his arms, but Mike needs to run, like he did before. He can feel the disappointment radiating off of his grandfather like cruel heat waves. How many times does he need to be reminded that weakness could get him killed? (at least one more time.) 

Hours later, when he should be asleep, Mike hasn’t stopped seeing it. The weekend comes and he’s snuck off to the library, and he realizes the only thing more excruciating than seeing it all spelled out in history books was knowing that nobody else cared to read them.

* * *

Maybe it’s harsh, but out of everyone in their ragtag mess of friends, Stan knew Mike was the one he would always be able to trust. It’s not that he doesn’t trust the rest of his friends; he’s been through hell with all of them and would do it over again if it meant they would all turn out fine. It’s what he knows about Mike and his goodness and his dedication and his willingness to do for all of them what they haven’t come close to earning that makes his mind up for him. It’s a testament to how selfish Stan knows he is that he wants all that Mike has to offer, all to himself. He wants Mike to want everything he has, too. He wants that, but he still excels in placing the things he doesn’t like thinking about in little boxes and hiding them in the dusty corners of the attic. 

Maybe it should make sense that Stan is awake at an ungodly hour of the night again, scenes rushing through his mind as he scrunches his eyes closed. Of course, if life was supposed to make sense then how come nobody says what they really think? Stan had to learn that lesson painfully and early. He’s never been normal, just troubled. But he wants so, so badly to be normal. In every sense of the word he can think of. He just wants to go one day without an ache in his chest and a deep sense of his soul being bent askew. 

And somewhere in the haze of being lost in his thoughts, it turned into 6:00 AM on a Saturday and Stan knew he was in love. His stomach rolled. 

All seven losers had gotten up at an ungodly hour and piled into Ben’s Range Rover to milk the 80 degree weather and head to the beach (if Stan noticed his parents’ disappointment at him missing service, he didn’t acknowledge it). The car, of course, didn’t have enough seats for everyone, which left Bev sprawling across Bill and Mike in the backseat (Mike offered to take the middle seat because he’s just that nice, but Bill figured his own lack of muscle qualified him better). Eddie (surprise) sat on Richie’s lap, complaining about his mom inevitably losing her shit when they get back and looking like he was ready to strangle anyone in the vicinity. 

It was unspoken, but everyone else let Stan have shotgun. Just the thought of getting into an accident and becoming a teen driving statistic kept him wearing a seatbelt in his solitary seat and out of the driver’s seat entirely. On a good day, he might’ve seen it as a testament to how much they all care, how aware they are of what his brain has no control over, but it wasn’t one of those days. It was just another day he wished they didn’t have to. Stan sat rigid in the passenger seat staring straight ahead like a figure carved from stone and tried to tune out the shouting coming from the backseat. 

“Hey, you good?” 

Stan turned to face Ben, eyes on the road but face infinitely knowing. She really didn’t miss anything. Ever since she had come out as transgender earlier that summer she'd been dressing more feminine and wearing her hair down as it grew out. If there was one thing that hadn't changed, though, it was how observant she was.

Stan sighed. “Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know, you just seem a bit out of it.”

Stan immediately turned defensive. “I’m fine. Seriously.”

“If you say so,” Ben shrugged. “But if you need to talk, about anything, you know we all care about you.”

That was the problem, thought Stan. Maybe love was meant to be liberating, but not in Derry. Here, it was just a weakness. 

When the car finally stopped in Old Orchard, after an aggravating 3 hours of mom jokes and bickering and New Kids On The Block running on repeat in the tape deck, it was all Stan could do not to take off running. Truly, he hated the beach; he hated the sun and the sand that you always seemed to find even years after visiting and the crowds they could never seem to beat. The only birds there were seagulls, the dregs of the species. The only thing Stan could do was sit and feel sorry for himself.

He stepped out and leaned against the warm metal of the car as everyone climbed out and started unloading towels and snacks. 

“Ready to work on your tan, Stan the Man?” said Richie.

Stan raised his eyebrows. “How long have you been holding onto that one?”

“Since we planned this trip.”

“I see.” Rolling his eyes at Richie might as well have been a reflex at this point.

“He’s just overcompensating for his own pasty ass,” yelled Beverly from where she was taking out soda from the trunk. Stan smirked as Richie let out an affronted squawk. 

“Come on, assholes, we need to get a spot before the crowd moves in,” Bill said. He held three large, multicolored umbrellas, desperately clutched to his chest.

Stan thought it was nice how Bill's stutter always seemed to improve outside Derry, but while he was glad for his friend, it only made him more sure of the town's negative influence. Still, it was nice to pretend they were out of the woods.

“Bill, do you need help?” asked Bev, snickering. 

Bill puffed out his chest. “No, Beverly, I do not need help, for I am a dignified man capable of carrying these umbrellas down to the beach all by myself.”

Bev was fully cackling now, her face scrunched up in laughter. “Whatever you say, nerd.”

Beverly winked and strolled away, over to Ben, coming up to whisper something in her ear. Bill turned to lug his umbrellas down to the sand, only to be greeted by Richie jumping out at him. He let out a scream and all three umbrellas tumbled to the ground. 

Richie threw his head back in laughter. “Oh, today’s gonna be great!”

“S-suck my dick, Richie,” Bill said, kneeling to pick up the umbrellas. 

“You know I’d love to, but-”

“No.”

Richie pushed his glasses up his nose and scoffed. “Prude.”

“Hey Rich, if you don’t stop being a dick to Bill, I won’t buy you any fried bullshit from the boardwalk,” said Eddie, approaching with a stack of towels. 

“Eddie, my love, thank god you’re here! I need someone to put sunscreen on my back!”

“I hope you burn.”

* * *

The day passed in a blur of sunburn and hedonism, if washing down garbage from the pier with a couple cans of soda counted as a sin. Stan hadn’t expected a lot from this trip, but he had at least hoped he wouldn’t spend it vomiting in the public toilet with a scorched pink face. Hope was stupid anyway.

The one thing nobody had considered was going home again. By the time anyone had thought about what to do next, the sun had set and the beach was slowly being overtaken by shadow. The ocean itself moved tiredly, wanting nothing but to stop and rest.

“I am _telling_ you, my mom will kill me if I’m not back tonight,” Eddie groaned. 

“Then hop a fucking Greyhound or something,” Stan retorted, holding his head as it pulsed from dehydration and waiting for the Aspirin to kick in. The group had migrated over to Ben’s car to either discuss the situation or sit and doze off. Stan was lucky Ben had meds in the glove compartment.

Beverly’s face had taken on a deep seriousness since this debate had started. “Eddie, I know it isn’t ideal and I’m sorry we didn’t plan this as well as we should’ve, but if we drive back now we’ll be home by, like, four.”

“We can’t make Ben drive that late,” said Mike from his spot on the hood of the car.

“It’s really not that big a deal--” Ben started.

Mike looked back at her and smiled softly. “No offense, but it’s not just for your sake. If you fall asleep behind the wheel, we’re _all_ toast.” 

“But Ben isn’t the only one who can drive!” said Eddie.

Steadily, Stan was losing his patience for it all. His day at the beach had been a wild ride. If it wasn’t the sand and the sun personally ganging up on him and clinging to his skin, it was the swarms of loud, garish people. It was the smell of sweat and cheap food and the hot air pressing in on him from all sides. It was the clown face on the ferris wheel. It was the fact that he had about a year before he had to worry about a real future rather than an obsessive imaginary one. To top it all off, it was him feeling dirty at the prospect of both being with Mike and being without him. 

“You know what?” he said, turning to go. “I’m just gonna leave you guys to figure this out.”

Stan stalked off to the nearest phone booth, a grungy structure smelling faintly of piss. Holding his breath, he gingerly stepped in, taking care to avoid touching the walls and contracting five different strains of the plague. The world was still for a second after he closed the scratched-up door. Stan took a second to breathe, remembering what his therapist said about staying calm. It took a few breaths, but he returned to the moment and blew his hair out of his face. Taking the phone, Stan punched in his house number and tried not to flinch away from the phone receiver against his face as it dialed. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. 

Of all the talks he’d had with his mom, this one wasn’t a highlight, but he hadn’t expected better. He knew he’d get a talking-to later about missing service and Havdalah and everything else they think he’s worthy of taking part in. It was stuff he could’ve predicted, did predict, and now he feels guilty for even more reasons. 

Stan didn’t realize he’d been standing with his forehead pressed to the receiver until Mike came over with his concerned face and knocked on the door. It was like no matter what he did he couldn’t keep from burdening his friends. Having it be _Mike_ who saw him like this was just icing on the Human Disaster cake. But who else would have been persistent enough to follow him here?

Mike waits a second after he opens the door to just look in Stan’s eyes before speaking.

“Hey, you kinda slipped away. Everything alright?”

Stan breathed in. Out.

“Everything’s fine, I swear.”

“You sure?” Mike asked, raising his eyebrows. Mike’s brown eyes always seemed to beam with some soft awareness, something that told Stan he was at least trying to understand him. It was unbearable.

It took all of Stan’s boulder-pushing strength to keep the tears at bay. 

“Mike, I really can’t talk to you right now.”

“But--”

“Please,” he said, cutting him off. “I just need you to go. I’m sorry.”

Stan’s blurry eyes managed to catch Mike’s jaw clenching. Still, his eyes were soft. 

“Okay. Sorry.”

Stan didn’t get to see him walk away, closing his eyes and sliding down the glass at his back. With one sneaker he kicked the door closed, and he breathed. It was fine.

If Stan was gonna be a massive disappointment to the universe and everyone around him, the least he could do was let Mike get out of it.

* * *

It was the harsh truth: Mike had never belonged anywhere. The house he’d been young in was ash with Mom and Dad and the rest of his childhood. If he had any right to call Derry home, the others who did the same sure wouldn’t let him claim it. The library was only calm and cooling in the way blowing on a burn gave momentary relief, and no matter how connected he might feel to something greater than himself, he could never leave his reality behind upon entering. The Losers, his Losers, were bound by blood, but it wouldn’t be enough to keep them from leaving this town. Even the farm couldn’t fully be his home. Mike had always liked the animals and growth and contributing to things that mattered. That’s why the dark parts of it hit him so hard. There was no place for him to be the lamb in this world, but he had no desire to be the butcher, either. The farm, for him, would sadly always remain a symbol of his shortcomings. Mike’s grandfather had always tried to make him strong, to make him wary of his lot in life, but mostly it just made him feel weak in comparison. Then again, how much of that alienation was truly his grandfather’s fault? How much of what his grandfather taught him were lessons Mike would’ve learned anyway? Lessons that Mike _has_ learned anyway?

Mike is smart in lots of ways. There are many things he’s studied in his short life, but history is what really sticks out for him. You could name him any prominent historical event and he would likely produce off the top of his head not only the dates involved, but the lasting significance of it. Because history wasn’t a stagnant idea, it was a living, breathing entity that informed every aspect of the world. Mostly, though, history was cruel. They say history is written by the victors, and they’re mostly right, but history is also shaped by anyone who’s willing to work for it, whether the victors like it or not. That’s why people know about homosexuality, but remember it as a disease. The victories of the people in power haven’t quite worn off. It’s that half-truth, that existence for the cost of respect, that’s cruel.

So what’s the lesson? If you stand out, you ruin yourself, but you get remembered for it? Is that what people cried and yelled and desperately fought for? What people died alone in hospitals for? What people left home and tasted blood and concrete for? Is that what history, in all her glory, has for Mike?

And that’s it. That’s the key. It’s Mike’s history, too. Because he’s one of them, in the way that only feeling things for other boys makes him. In the way Stan makes him feel. 

Stan has his own troubles, sure, and Mike doesn’t envy him, but there’s something so inimitably graceful about him nonetheless. In the same sense that no one can truly forge the artful chaos of a Pollock painting. For Mike, it’s magnetizing and consuming and while he’s far from feeling confident, it’s not a bad feeling. It feels as natural as breathing.

For once, Mike wants to be the victor of his own history.

So he picks up the phone.

* * *

The thunder didn’t bother them much as they stretched out on the farm’s lush grass. It was only when it started raining that they had dashed into the barn, laughing. In Stan’s experience, rain is only good when you’re inside watching it, which is why this darkness is comfortable amidst the pattering on the old wood of the roof. Of course neither of them had expected the storm in the first place, so neither of them had brought a light or blankets. This brought them to their current position of huddling together under the one blanket they’d found folded in the corner. Mike was warm and solid, and it wouldn’t have been a problem if Stan wasn’t having a massive crisis. Here they were, just trying to stay warm, and Stan couldn’t stop… _feeling_. It was pathetic. Stan had all the grace and twice the palm sweat of some dumb kid from the dorky sex ed videos they showed in middle school. Did Mike even know Stan was taking advantage of the closeness? It wasn’t something Stan thought he would do, but what else was it other than parasitic? Stan should tell him. He should have a choice.

And yet, Stan can’t envision this scene differently. Something about the closeness feels like it’s supposed to be like this, like Mike somehow _knows_ and wants it too, and that idea is both wild and terrifying. The feeling you get right as you look over the edge of a cliff. But it’s also warm and inviting, and for someone who doesn’t like other people touching him, Stan really wants Mike to reach out.

It’s just an idea, anyway. The thoughts pass and Stan shivers beneath the blanket as they watch the rain soak the field. 

The shivering is the catalyst. Before Stan has time to think, Mike is pulling him closer under the blanket they share, and it’s warm, and it’s terrifying, and Stan’s thought enough about this moment, but he never even considered what comes next. Thinking of it like it has a potential for a future serves no real purpose. 

A moment passes where Stan just sits and waits for time to catch up.

“Can I kiss you?” Mike whispers suddenly.

Stan’s voice breaks on his “please” and he could be embarrassed about that but it’s really the least important thing when he could be kissing a beautiful boy during a storm.

There’s nothing more excruciatingly beautiful, Stan thinks, than the moment right before a kiss, when breath mingles and skin heats up and the world only exists in the space between. It’s thrilling down to the bone and the seconds before meeting feel like eternities that he could learn to cross forever. The moment before is something you have to look out for, a needle in a burning haystack, a study in potential energy, but the hesitation and the decision to move forward, the dense second of taking it all in, are what make it so significant.

The only thing better was when the moment ended and Mike’s lips met Stan’s. It started messy. Neither boy had much experience outside of Princess Bride movie nights, and neither really minded, either. Mike didn’t kiss like an apology; this was slow and good and somewhat hesitant in a way that suggested he didn’t want to rush the moment. Mike’s calloused hands carefully came up to Stan’s jaw in a gesture promising safety, and for Stan that was all too much. He broke away and looked into Mike’s concerned eyes.

“Are you sure y-“

“Yes”, said Mike, cutting him off.

Stan chuckled “You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“All I know is...anything you can offer me, I’d have it. No question.”

Stan looked down and bit his lip. A smooth breeze ruffled his and Mike’s hair and clothes.

“But, if you don’t want that…”

Stan quickly met Mike’s eyes. “No, no, I do. You have no fucking idea. It’s just...confusing. Like, what does this mean, for us? Are we...dating?”

“It’s whatever we need it to be,” Mike said, shrugging. “I just like you a lot, and if you like me, too, I don’t think we should just sit and wait around for something to happen.”

“Why do you even like me, though?” Stan huffed out a laugh.

Mike considered it for a moment. “I don’t think I can tell you. Not because I don’t know, just because treating it all like a list feels...wrong. Can’t it just be enough to feel something without knowing exactly why?”

Stan nodded. “I know what you mean.”

Mike’s warm eyes crinkle as he smiles (really, if there was one way to describe Mike, it would be “warm”) and Stan’s skin is on fire, and that’s that. They don’t kiss again, but they lean into each other now under the blanket. 

They’re just two boys alone together in the rain.

* * *

It takes about a week for the doubt to set in. He’d been too impulsive and there’s too much to consider. Mike has never been in a relationship, barely had ties to anyone he wasn’t related to until the Losers. Talking things out was nice, but it was never his strong suit. With no words, there was nothing left to do but question it.

1\. Who was allowed to know?  
2\. If they couldn’t tell, then what _would_ they say?  
3\. What were they allowed? What was their future? Was their interest in each other a ticket to hell, or a death sentence? A trial for a crime worse than murder? 

There were other questions, but Mike didn’t need more unknown variables. All he knew was that normal kids didn’t have to wonder if they were wrong. Normal kids could always count on being real and alive to see the next day.

Stan was over, napping on Mike’s plain bed on the second floor of the farmhouse. Mike doesn’t want to think about what kept him up the night before right now; he would likely see his own night concerns reflected back at him. Hopefully Stan has good things in his head right now. And Mike knows it’s bullshit, to think of himself as bad or wrong. Normal kids do worse shit than he’s ever done, sneaking out and playing with knives when their parents’ backs are turned. Mike’s never even smoked. But still. Laying on his bed, hair ruffled and expression calm, Stan looked like something peaceful. But Mike has never known what to do with beautiful things. Compared to Stan, he’s rough and imperfect, and, worst of all, he’s another boy. The only way he knows two boys can fall into this intertwined fate is if one of them is a villain. Again, bullshit, but knowing it’s not true and feeling it’s not true are different, and he feels against his will like he’s the villain in this story.

Anyway, if it came down to people finding out, it wouldn’t matter what he thought about himself. It would only matter that he wasn’t white.

He’s past the point of being ashamed of his feelings for Stan, for boys. It’s too late for that to save him. If he’s wrong then there’s no way to make him right, and it’s just another thing making him an outsider. Mike wondered when he’d stopped making his grandfather proud, because if he wasn’t disappointed in Mike’s weak survival instincts, then he would be upon finding out Mike was even less normal than he was supposed to be. And this was just the real world. What was the consensus in Heaven? If being queer was worse than murder, maybe that’s why his parents were gone. 

Mike didn’t realize he was crying until Stan stirred from his rest and quickly sat up in concern.

“Mike, hey, what’s wrong?”

Mike was mortified. He knew his role; he was supposed to be the strong one that his friends could come to for protection, and more than once that had crumbled in front of Stan’s watchful eyes. It was humiliating. 

Mike shook his head. “No, it’s nothing.”

“Mike…” Stan looked hurt as Mike turned away. He couldn’t even pretend not to notice when he knew they were feeling the same emotion in that moment.

And that was the kicker: Mike could go years playing this game, hiding with Stan in plain sight, keeping their relationship between themselves, and it would still be freer than pretending to be something he’s not. Being with Stan, in a lot of ways, felt like a breath above water. The contrast was what made the additional feeling of being trapped in a closet even harsher. 

That was Mike’s biggest question: How could someone feel both trapped and free for the same reason?

* * *

Stan Uris wasn’t built from stone. He wasn’t soft or warm. His arms weren’t strong enough to carry the weight of living. He was just thin and bony, with wrists you could encircle with your fingers. When he walked he felt like a balancing act that people only came to see fall. He couldn’t look in mirrors without being scared to see something staring back at him, whether it was a figure out of a nightmare or just himself. Both had equal potential to kill him. 

Being with Mike, Stan didn’t feel like he had to be any one thing. And it was easy to get lost in the idea of not having to adhere to what everyone else knows you to be. It’s nice for a while. And then the fear sets in. Suddenly, Stan has to be the strong one when he barely knows what to do with himself. Mike is having doubts and avoiding him and Stan has no idea what he could possibly do to make it better. Mike needs a lighthouse and he’s all burnt out. 

Maybe they were meant to fall apart, to gravitate together and be flung to opposite ends of the universe. And it wasn’t just drifting away, either, it was more violent and more subtle. Loss wasn’t a graceful thing, nor did Stan have control over it. In the end he couldn’t stop things from happening like he could (theoretically) stop checking the toaster for a fire hazard or scratching up his skin. The same stinging pain and sense for disaster with different outcomes. Then again, Stan was never good at breaking habits anyway. Loss and screaming nerves might as well be the same string of fate.

But fate is later and now is now, and Stan is swallowing his reservations and standing outside the Hanlons’ door. He’s brushed his shoes on the doormat outside (three times for each foot) and he’s pressed the broken doorbell and he’s willed himself to knock on the ancient wood, but it’s a small inconvenience. He thought the door, the potential energy waiting behind it, was intimidating. He’d never met Mike’s grandfather. 

Leroy Hanlon isn’t scary in and of himself. He just gives Stan a sense of being able to stand his ground. The scary part is how inadequate Stan understands he is in that moment. He stands in front of this man who’s had more time to love Mike than Stan ever will, whose opinion of him probably matters more than Mike’s does, and he has no idea what to say. One misstep and the man who’s meant to protect Mike will do what he can to fulfill that responsibility. And Stan doesn’t blame him.

He’s already waited too long.

“You need something?” he asks. His voice sounds like an old oak creaking in the fall. Nothing Stan does could possibly fool him.

So of course he stumbles through his words. 

“Uh, I, I wanted to see, uh, Mike?” It came out like a question.

Mr. Hanlon let out a grunt. “Yeah, okay, he’s just in his room.” It’s not unclear for a second that he is walking into this house on borrowed time. There is no trust in the old man’s eyes. 

“Thank you.”

The anxiety doesn’t get better. Standing outside Mike’s door, it just gets worse. It’s one thing to feel judged in the eyes of someone who has love for his grandson in his heart; being on one side of a door that could forever leave him alone and blocked off from the person he actually cares about is different beyond words. 

The door opens before he can knock.

“Hey,” Mike says.

“Hey.”

They both look at the ground.

“You wanna come in?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay.”

Mike beckons him and steps back, and Stan enters slowly. He’s never really been able to stop being careful.

Once Mike closes his door they’re back to looking at the scuffed wood floor beneath their feet. 

“I think your grandpa hates me.”

Mike chuckled a little. “He doesn’t, I swear. He’s just...scared--that I’m giving people more reasons to hate me. It’s a protective instinct, I guess.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” said Stan, frowning.

“Maybe not, but I understand it.”

Stan didn’t know how to respond to that. His own parents, as much as he knew they cared about him, always seemed more concerned with appearances than with Stan’s actual personal wellbeing. 

“Did you need something?”

It didn’t sound impatient or threatening, but there was a sort of warning in Mike’s voice, warning Stan not to tread too far into what they both knew was coming. 

It was incredible that Stan could speak when all the breath had swiftly left his lungs. 

“I just...wanted to talk.”

Mike nodded and bit his lip, shoulders sinking into a slump. “Yeah, okay, I guess we should.”

It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear. Mike knew it, too, if the way he avoided Stan’s eyes was any indication.

“Did I do something wrong?” asked Stan. “I don’t know if I did something, or if it’s unrelated, but it seems like you’re going through some--”

Mike shook his head. “No, God, no, you didn’t do anything. I promise it’s not that.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?” 

It sounded petulant to Stan’s ears. Everything about this made him feel like a whining child.

“I don’t _want_ to avoid you, I just feel like I was too impulsive, before. It’s my fault, not yours,” Mike said, eyes meeting Stan’s sadly. 

Stan tried to say it as softly as he could. “I’m sorry, but that’s bullshit.”

“What?” said Mike, looking confused.

Stan took a breath.

“I think we both have issues. We’re both imperfect and we’re both trying to survive, but I guess we feel like we can’t justify that without thinking of ourselves as _wrong_ , somehow. If this is gonna work, we have to know we’re _not_ wrong for feeling what we feel. The whole damn world wants us to feel like we are, but since when has the rest of the world made any difference?”

“I want to believe you’re right,” Mike began. “But I’m also scared of what happens if we take that risk. In a town like this we won’t get another chance.”

Mike didn’t need to elaborate. It had only been a few summers before, in ‘84, when Adrian Mellon was found beaten and drowned in the Kenduskeag river underneath the Maine Street Bridge. Stan remembered being 10 and hearing his dad bring it up at the breakfast table. He hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary then, just sat and listened until his dad turned the page of the newspaper. Stan’s parents were never on the “AIDS is sent by God to punish the gays” train, but they weren’t outspoken advocates either. To them, the news might as well have been the weather forecast: only important in however it affected them. Just like all the other people in Derry.

That wasn’t the whole of it, either. You only had to go down to Bassey Park to see what everyone else really thought about gay people. All up and down the Kissing Bridge, scattered among the vulgar drawings and declarations of mercurial teenage love, were scratched-in messages detailing exactly what they wanted to do to queers, in the name of God or otherwise. Between images of nails and murder, the only thing missing was a signature. And really, they didn’t need them. Whether or not an individual person in town carved terrible things into what was considered the site of stupid, young romance, nobody else would stop them anyway. Nobody in Derry had to make it clear what exactly they thought. It was oddly fitting, how one place embodied both the routine coming-of-age of the normal kids, the kissing and empty promises seemingly crucial to growing up, and the oppressive cloud hanging over the queer kids who never had that same chance. 

It makes sense. 

But this town has never quite made sense.

“You’re right that it’s not easy, and I want to face the brunt of Derry’s homophobic wrath about as much as you do, but we aren’t alone,” said Stan. “You’re not alone. Both of us together, they’ll have to put up a hell of a fight.”

Mike smiled at that, and the world had a little more balance. Then he laughed.

“You came all the way out here. You met my _grandpa_. You must really care about me, huh?”

Stan rolled his eyes, but it didn’t stop a smile from stretching across his lips. 

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

* * *

It felt like July came and went in an instant, like a bus they just missed.

Prince is playing on Mike’s scratchy record player and the window of the room is open and the light is soft, while he and Stan lie on his bed, drifting between kissing and sleeping. It’s balmy as the outside air drifts in, but it’s a pleasant air. Idyllic and heavy with heat. 

It’s not perfect. There are still times where Stan reaches out only for Mike to take the stance of a cornered animal, a feeling Mike already knows too well in some distant corner of his brain. Stan has days where the nails and knives and angry words whirl through his mind when he should be praying. Stan’s parents have a talk with him about his almost-nightly contribution to their phone bill. Mike’s grandpa still doesn’t trust Stan (or any of Mike’s friends, really). It’s imperfect, but it works.

Somewhere in the hot air and the fingers loosely curled in hair, Stan speaks up.

“Hey, Mike?”

“Hmm?”

Stan rolls onto his side and looks him in the eyes. He looks drowsy, but Mike knows he’s always alert, always ready to exercise that Boy Scout preparedness instinct at a moment’s notice. Mike had never really had the time for organized activities with other kids his age, let alone the goddamn BSA, but Stan’s caution is more than familiar. Identical, in fact.

Stan’s face scrunches a bit before he opens his mouth, and Mike sees his hands’ shaky effort not to press his sharp nails down into his skin. 

“Do you think we’re gonna be okay?” He’s worried. 

“I...I’m not sure I know how to answer that, Stan,” Mike says, caught off guard. “Do you mean, like, when we grow up?”

Stan sighs. “I’m not even sure what I mean anymore. The future seems like a whole different concept from how it was when we were younger.”

He fixes Mike with a stare. “Besides, I think we’ve already grown up. While we weren’t looking, we just stopped being innocent.” 

It’s more cryptic and philosophical than Stan usually gets, and now Mike’s worried, too. 

“Stan...are you okay? Is something wrong?” 

“Um, yeah, I think so,” Stan says, not meeting his eyes. “I guess I just don’t see what happens after...this. But I don’t even know what ‘this’ is.”

The song changes from its slow pace to a more rapid, mechanized beat. 

“Like, if there’s a future, I can’t picture it.” 

A pause, then “I’m not making any sense, am I? Sorry, just ignore me.”

Mike feels his brow furrow as he looks back over. “You sure you don’t wanna talk about it? 

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

A few moments pass before Mike speaks up again.

“There’s no way for me to really know how we turn out, I guess, and as much as I wanna tell you we’ll be alright, I can’t promise that. To be honest I can’t really picture anything, either, but maybe it’s better that way--when we just have to go through it to really know for sure.”

Stan laughs a little. “It’s a nice thought, but that sounds fucking exhausting.”

“Yeah, life tends to be that way,” Mike says, the ghost of a smile appearing on his face. Something whispers in his ear, reminding him of what Stan said about slashing his wrists all those years ago when the Losers made that binding promise, but he mentally bats it away. Stan’s here now, and if he’s here, he’s not dead. “The way I like to think of it, we’re at the end of that transitional period. We’re not kids, and we’re only an inch away from being adults. It doesn’t feel...real. At all. The best I can ever really do is try not to think about it.”

“I don’t know if I can manage that. My thoughts are only mine about half the time,” Stan says this with a wry smile, but the smile is worn out around the edges.

It’s not easy to hear. Whatever they are to each other, Mike wants Stan to be as fine as he can be. Only, the best thing he can do is lay his own demons out side by side with Stan’s. 

Mike takes a quick breath and slides his hand into Stan’s, silently remarking how unbelievably natural it feels when their skin brushes together. 

“Even when you feel unreal,” he whispers. “I hope you know you’re the only thing that really exists to me.”

Maybe it’s a step further than he intended to go, maybe he didn’t mean to say something so raw and dramatic, but when Stan leans in to kiss Mike on the cheek it feels like he understands. After he kisses him, he doesn’t move away. He just curls in closer and breathes a little more soundly.

“I think I get what you mean, though,” he says. “When I’m around you I feel like I have less to worry about. A good percentage of what I worried about this summer was just whether or not it’s wrong to like you like this.”

They hug tightly, like they’re blocking their feelings from breaking through their rib cages. 

“Just for now, let’s pretend we have nothing to worry about,” Stan continues. “The future doesn’t have to exist right now if we don’t want it to.”

Mike can’t help but smile. “I can agree to that.”

They drift through the next hour, sleeping and not sleeping, clothes brushing softly against the light sheets, the record playing through the end of the album, until Stan’s watch beeps for him to return home.

His face says what he means before he does. “I don’t really wanna go.”

Mike sits up and pecks him on the lips. “I’m not kicking you out…”

“I do have to get home,” Stan says, laughing a bit.

“In the cosmic sense, you don’t really _have_ to do anything.” 

Mike methodically presses kisses to Stan’s face, like stamps he leaves on books when he volunteers at the library. Eventually, though, Stan does have to leave. He reluctantly moves to go before turning back for one parting kiss. 

As they pull apart, something indescribable wells up in Mike’s stomach. It’s a feeling for later, though, he thinks, and he moves to open the door to his room. 

“I’ll call you later, okay?”

Stan nods and trudges slowly through the doorway and down the stairs.

* * *

23 years later, Stanley Uris will be anything but comforted when he hears a familiar voice over the phone line.

23 years later, Mike Hanlon will find a dying bird in his fortune cookie and know exactly what it means.

**Author's Note:**

> follow my dumb ass on tungl @ 80swalkman


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